Belinda Bauer: The Facts of Life and Death

North Devon had its fair share of cowboys, that was for sure. All week they worked in banks or did odd jobs, but Cowboy Nights transported them for just a few hours to the Wild West, where men were men, women were buxom, and jails were made of wood.

When the Gunslingers had first appeared, the residents of Appledore had been a little nervous of the men in boots and black hats who swaggered down the narrow canyon of Irsha Street every Friday night. But after a while the net curtains stopped twitching every time a cowpoke passed through the little fishing village on his way to the pub, and it was left only to small gangs of teenaged boys to laugh and shout insults.

From a safe distance.

Once at the George, the Gunslingers got drunk and showed off and flirted with the barmaids, and talked in a cowboy way about cowboy things.

Like fashion.

They fell on any new item of cowboy clothing or equipment like Beverly Hills housewives – poring over it for style and authenticity. Funds and geography dictated that items usually failed on both counts. Nellie Wilson’s holster was from army surplus, Scratch Mumford’s poncho had been crocheted by his mother, and Blacky Blackmore’s cowboy hat had a Pixar logo under the brim.

The Gunslingers’ most authentic asset came when Frank ‘Whippy’ Hocking would ride his hairy skewbald, Tonto, through the village and tie him up outside the George. There, tourists took pictures, and small children fed him sugar and ketchup and any other pub condiments that were free. ‘No mustard,’ Whippy always told them. When he left, the worse for wear, the other Gunslingers would come outside and help to push Whippy up into the tooled leather saddle. It always took at least three of them to heave him upright, because Whippy was one of the ice-cream clan, and quality control was his life.

When they weren’t peacocking, the Gunslingers played a casual game of poker for pennies and bickered back and forth about old TV Westerns – wavering between Bonanza and The High Chaparral and The Virginian. Between them they had pirated all the box sets. In the films they were split between Clint Eastwood or Gary Cooper; John Wayne or Jimmy Stewart. Their jury was always out on Kevin Costner, who promised so much and so often – then somehow always managed to ruin things with gills or a bad haircut.

If a man joined the Gunslingers – and if he were not thoroughly unpopular – he’d be given a cowboy name. Whether he liked it or not. Mostly these names were bestowed for low reasons that barely troubled the imagination. Blacky Blackmore delivered coal, Hick Trick lived in the sticks, while Daisy Yeo mooed loudly and randomly, in a sort of agricultural Tourette’s; in the supermarket you could hear him aisles away.

Some men tried to join up with their cowboy name all ready to go, but the Gunslingers had no truck with that. Indeed, they were apt to punish such presumption, which was why Len ‘Pussy’ Willows’ membership had been short and fractious, ending in a brawl that had memorably spilled out of the George and all the way down Irsha Street.

Just like real cowboys.

It had happened six months ago, and they still worked it into at least one conversation a week.

As the night and the beer ran down, the Gunslingers would get reflective on how much better life would be if only North Devon were open of range and filled with cattle – preferably ones which needed driving from one end of the county to the other on a regular basis. They’d put Willie and Johnny on the jukebox in a mournful loop, and sigh into their empty glasses and empty holsters, and long for the good old days before varmints started shooting small children and everyone got so damned jumpy – even about replicas.

THE NAKED GIRL sat on the empty beach.

The tide was so far out that its edge had disappeared in the low grey cloud, and the sand was hard and wet in the persistent drizzle.

She sat cross-legged and hunched over. Cold and snivelling, with her back to the invisible sea, and her hands trapped under her icy buttocks.

‘Call your mother,’ the man said.

Fresh sobs burst from the girl and the man looked at his watch. He prodded her again with the phone. It was an iPhone. Better than any phone he’d ever had. And the girl was what? Sixteen? Seventeen? Ridiculous.

‘Call your mother,’ he repeated slowly.

The girl was crying so hard now that when she tried to say something, he couldn’t understand it.

‘What?’ he said. He frowned in concentration, but her words couldn’t get past her weeping.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! Stop crying and speak clearly!’

‘You’re going to kill me!’

‘Yes, I am,’ he agreed. ‘Call your mother.’

She only wailed loudly.

‘Don’t you want to say goodbye?’ he asked, almost kindly.

The girl raised her snot-stained face defiantly.

‘Shut up!’ she shrieked, and lunged at his legs. She didn’t get her hands from under her bottom fast enough, and toppled forward on to her shoulder and her face.

He righted her roughly with the toe of his boot. The left side of her face was coated in a gritty tan mask, and she blinked and gasped as though she’d risen from the sea, not the sand.

He held up the phone so he could take a picture.

‘Eight megapixels,’ he observed. ‘On a bloody phone.’ He showed her the photo. ‘Maybe I’ll send that to your mates. What do you think? I’ve got all their numbers in here.’

Her face slackened in misery.

‘Please don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t send that to anyone.’

‘Then call your mother.’

The girl started to cry again – hard and steady. She shifted her weight to release one of her hands from under her buttock, and took the phone from him. She was shaking so hard that she took three goes to hit the right number. On the screen a picture of an old-fashioned telephone vibrated in time to the ringtone. Under the buzzing picture were the words Calling Mum.

‘It’s ringing,’ she wept.

‘Really?’ he said sarcastically.

‘What do I say?’

‘Say goodbye.’

‘Can I tell her I love her?’

‘If you do.’

‘I do love her!’ cried the girl. ‘Can I speak to my dad too?’

‘This isn’t Who Wants To Be A Millionaire .’

The ringing stopped and a face appeared on the screen.

‘Mum?’ said the girl.

‘Do I look like Mum, peabrain?’

‘Ricky, get Mum.’ The girl was suddenly calm.

‘What am I? Your slave?’

‘Just get her, Ricky! It’s an emergency.’

The boy had a stud through his eyebrow. Spoilt brats, the both of them.

‘What’s the magic word?’

‘The magic word is fucking please you fucking arsehole.’

‘I’m gonna tell Mum you said that. You’re in deep shit.’

‘I know,’ said the girl, and started to cry again. ‘I know.’

Ricky turned his head to one side and yelled, ‘Mum! Kelly’s on the phone!’ Then there were some random ceiling shots before a woman’s cheerful face appeared.

‘Hi, Kells.’

‘Mummy?’ That was all the girl could get out before the crying overtook her completely.

The woman’s face was instantly washed with panic.

‘Kelly, what’s wrong? Where are you?’

‘MummyMummyMummyMummy…’ The girl’s snot and spit looped from her lips and on to the phone.

‘Say goodbye,’ the man reminded her sharply.

‘Kelly, who’s that? Who’s with you? Where are you?’

‘He’s going to kill me, Mummy. He made me call you to say goodbye.’

The woman’s face went loose with horror.

This was more like it.

‘I love you, Mummy!’